Chapter Sixteen
Maisie sat stiffly in the corner of the rattling carriage, her gloved hands tight around the reticule, as though she might spill the future she’d once imagined and hadn’t stopped chasing since.
With Deena escorting the little Marquess to the dentist, Maisie had a few stolen hours to continue her search.
London’s streets blurred past the glass, faces flickering by—anonymous, hurried, forgettable. Soot filmed the brick facades, a dull gray crust left by winter. She barely noticed. Her mind tugged toward one destination, one last thread she refused to let go of.
The carriage drew up to a narrow shop, the wooden sign above creaking faintly in the wind:
Rams and Son, Booksellers and Newsmen
Periodicals and Archives Acquired and Catalogued
Her boots struck the stoop with a soft click, skirts whispering over the worn wood. She didn’t pause, though the air hummed with gossip about frost and failing crops. None of it mattered. None of her newspaper adverts calling for a Faivish Blattner had brought a single answer.
Inside, the familiar perfume of paper and ink wrapped around her, heavy as memory. The counter overflowed with ledgers and broadsheets. A fire muttered in the hearth, half-hearted but enough to thaw the chill.
The clerk behind the desk, spectacles sliding down his nose, looked up mid-scratch of his pen.
“Good morning, ma’am,” he said, inclining his head. “What may I help you find?”
Maisie’s voice surprised her by sounding steady. “I’ve come to search your archives. Newspapers, if you please.”
He tilted his head. “From where, exactly?”
“Vienna. France. India, if possible. The past year or two. In English, French, or German.” She knew how absurd it sounded—like trying to summon love out of a ledger. But if Faivish’s name had surfaced anywhere, she couldn’t afford not to look.
The clerk rose with unexpected briskness and gestured her through the aisles. Leather bindings and dust pressed close around them until they reached a long table at the back, flanked by two rickety chairs. He motioned to the precarious stacks.
“These should suit. Ring if you need me.”
Maisie sat, smoothed her skirts, and opened the first volume. The air ticked with paper and clockwork. Time seemed to thin itself into silence.
Her eyes skimmed headlines—opera notices, political columns, the marvels of steam engines, scandals of duchesses. Page after page, name after name. Never his.
Faivish Blattner. Dr. Blattner. F. Blattner. She whispered his name in her mind a hundred ways, hoping to see it inked here.
Just not in the obituaries. Please, oh please, not there.
Her fingers trembled as she turned the pages. He was clever—too clever to leave a trail if he wanted to vanish. But what if he hadn’t wanted her to find him? That fear bit deeper than all the rest.
Another sheet. Another disappointment. A name close—so close—but not him. Her shoulders sagged, the knot in her stomach tightening.
The fire hissed in the grate, smoke scratching faintly at the air. Maisie blinked hard, willing the blur in her eyes away.
No one was coming to rescue her from this endless hunt. But she could still search. She could try.
Memory tugged her back—Vienna, her father’s quiet practice. Faivish bent the rules for a friend. She, clumsy with instruments, cheeks burning. He had smiled—patient, warm—so certain of her. He had risked everything. She had risked her heart.
Now, only echoes. Only the rustle of pages in a London bookshop.
And still, she turned another.
*
That evening, back at 87 Harley Street, the apothecary’s back room breathed of mint and myrrh.
Tooth-powder dusted the lips of glass jars, each labeled in Alfie’s slanted hand.
Felix eased the final cork into place and smoothed a paper slip flat with his thumbnail: Charcoal the edges wore the grime of travel and being read too often.
“Everything my contacts in Vienna could pull,” Raphi said. “About Maisie Morgenschein.”
Felix’s stomach knotted. His hands went careful and still. For years, every inquiry had ended in a clean, echoing nothing—as if the world had swallowed her name. Now paper sat between them, heavy as proof.
Alfie edged back, eyes flicking toward Felix.
“She vanished from the official record in 1813,” Raphi went on, softer. “Just before you returned from India. There’s the synagogue notice for her father a few days after you left—then the trail dies. No employment. No address.”
Felix’s breath hitched. “That isn’t possible.”
“I thought the same.” Raphi unfolded a page. “Translation says the post confirms her name was stricken from the resident registry. I asked why.”
Silence settled.
“No answer.”
Alfie splayed a hand over his face. “So someone scrubbed it—on purpose?”
“I don’t know. Rot, fear, or order from above—it reads the same.” Raphi met Felix’s eyes. “They erased her.”
Felix stepped back until the counter found his spine. He swallowed once, then again. “So I can’t find her.”
“I’m sorry.”
Felix nodded. The cold that had been pacing his chest lay down and stayed. Impossibility wasn’t a reason to stop, only a weight to lift.
Raphi cleared his throat. “And that’s not the worst of it.”
Felix blinked. “What now?”
“My contact in Bistri?a—Northern Transylvania—says Baron von List’s men are raiding gold shipments again. And Wendy said Prince Stan’s family has soldiers there.”
Alfie stiffened. “The Carpathian routes.”
“Disguised as banditry, too regular to be chance. Klonimus reserves are down. The Crown-Jeweler network will strain. And you, Felix—your gold for restorations dries up if this keeps happening.”
Alfie swallowed. “If the Royal Warrant is questioned—if supply fails—”
“I won’t treat the charity cases,” Felix said. “Or keep standards for the titled ones.”
“And that,” Raphi said, “is the point. Discredit the Jewish jewelers who supply the Jewish doctor, undercut trust on Harley Street, and Parliament nods along while List calls it service to the Crown.”
Felix’s jaw set. It was never only medicine with men like that. It was power, and the boy at the center of today’s case made the perfect lever.
No one spoke. In the quiet, Alfie’s hand landed heavy and warm on Felix’s shoulder.
“You saved my smile,” Alfie said. “When no one else would risk their place.”
Felix gave a small, rough sound. “The rules weren’t right. That’s all.”
“No,” Alfie said, “some men live to make right things impossible. That’s where we don’t stop.”
“Nor will we,” Raphi added. “My brothers stand with you. So do the Pearlers. We’ll keep the gold moving. You keep the mouths mended. No one’s taking your Warrant while we can breathe.”
Felix looked down at the nearest letter, the ink feathered by strange hands. He slid one page toward himself and squared its corners, the old habit of a man who needed one true line to work from.
“All right.” He spoke low and steady but the air didn’t feel as though it filled his chest entirely. “Then we begin.”